


The Ink Drips On

by adobe_beforeffects



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Basically a short story collection, Body Horror, Drabble, Exact contents vary wildly depending on prompts, Gen, Horror, One Shot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-07-07 23:52:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 24
Words: 13,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15918768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adobe_beforeffects/pseuds/adobe_beforeffects
Summary: Even after death, life in the studio continues.Collection of short one-shot drabbles based off of prompts I've received. (Individual story premises and characters are listed in the first chapter/index.)





	1. Index

_Chapter 2. A Song_

**Prompt:** How did the workers find out about Grant's ability to sing?

**Characters:** Sammy Lawrence, Grant Cohen

 

_Chapter 3. A Threat_

**Prompt:** "What will Joey say?" Why was Grant so afraid of Joey?

**Characters:** Lacie Benton, Grant Cohen, Joey drew

 

_Chapter 4. A Friend_

**Prompt:** Henry mourns the loss of Boris.

**Characters:** Henry, Boris, Allison Angle, Tom Boris

 

_Chapter 5. A Confrontation_

**Prompt:** Lacie has a "talk" with Joey over a recent disappearance.

**Characters:** Lacie Benton, Joey Drew

 

_Chapter 6. A Misunderstanding_

**Prompt:** Bertrum realizes that Henry isn't who he thought he was.

**Characters:** Bertrum Piedmont, Henry

 

_Chapter 7. A New Body  
_

**Prompt:** Allison and Tom are still getting used to all of this, and they're not enjoying it.

**Characters:** Allison Angel, Tom Boris

 

_Chapter 8. A Sheep  
_

**Prompt:** Henry talks with the Lost Ones.

**Characters:** Henry, Lost Ones, Sammy Lawrence

 

_Chapter 9. A Transformation  
_

**Prompt:** Sometimes the transformations go right. Sometimes, they go wrong.

**Characters:** Grant Cohen

 

_Chapter 10. An Idiot  
_

**Prompt:** Wally's an idiot, but Thomas still has a bit of a soft spot for him.

**Characters:** Thomas Connor, Wally Franks, Tom Boris, Boris

 

_Chapter 11. A Light  
_

**Prompt:** Sammy comes across an old friend.

**Characters:** Sammy Lawrence, Norman Polk

 

_Chapter 12. A Kiss  
_

**Prompt:** Wally and Shawn are still getting used to a relationship.

**Characters:** Wally Franks, Shawn Flynn

 

_Chapter 13. A Smile  
_

**Prompt:** Joey's not perfect, but he certainly thinks he is. Or was.

**Characters:** Joey Drew, Bendy

 

_Chapter 14. A Projector  
_

**Prompt:** Alice creates The Projectionist.

**Characters:** Alice, Norman Polk

 

_Chapter 15. A Realization  
_

**Prompt:** Henry finds out who Boris is.

**Characters:** Henry, Joey Drew, Boris, Wally Franks

 

_Chapter 16. A Meeting  
_

**Prompt:** Bertrum and Lacie find each other.

**Characters:** Bertrum Piedmont, Lacie Benton, Butcher Gang

 

_Chapter 17. An Attack  
_

**Prompt:** Henry finds out what happened to Grant.

**Characters:** Henry, Grant Cohen, Butcher Gang

 

_Chapter 18. A Screwdriver  
_

**Prompt:** Henry makes it back to Joey's apartment.

**Characters:** Henry, Joey Drew

 

_Chapter 19. A Reunion  
_

**Prompt:** Shawn and Wally find each other again.

**Characters:** Shawn Flynn, Wally Franks, Boris, Butcher Gang

 

_Chapter 20. A Memo  
_

**Prompt:** Susie discovers she lost her role as Alice.

**Characters:** Susie Campbell, Allison Pendle, Sammy Lawrence

 

_Chapter 21. A Breakdown  
_

**Prompt:** Henry finally breaks.

**Characters:** Henry, Joey Drew

 

_Chapter 22. A Truce  
_

**Prompt:** Henry befriends the Butcher Gang.

**Characters:** Henry, Butcher Gang

 

_Chapter 23. A Happy Ending  
_

**Prompt:** Henry meets Joey's niece.

**Characters:** Henry, Joey Drew, Joey's niece

 

_Chapter 24. A Creation  
_

**Prompt:** Bertrum fuses with the ride.

**Characters:** Bertrum Piedmont


	2. A Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammy discovers music in the last place he'd expect it.

He’s not spying.

At least, that’s what Sammy tells himself as he puts an ear up to Grant’s door. He had only intended to collect his paycheck for the week, but now he can’t resist listening in on the melody drifting from inside the tiny room.

_“ Our venom stains, the night remains, but the ending is always just the same…“_

It’s… good. Perhaps a bit unpracticed, but with a bit of vocal training…

Sammy opens the door and the accountant startles, clearly not expecting anyone to walk in.

“Can I help you?”

“Paycheck. Please.”

Grant rises from his chair and moves to the dented file cabinet in the corner, flicking through folders at a quick pace.

“I heard singing in here,” he ventures. Grant eyes him over his reading glasses momentarily.

“It was the radio.”

Sammy looks around at the notably radio-less room.

“Sing that again.”

“I already told you. I wasn’t singing.”

“Just once. I think you really have something there.”

“No.” He pulls the check out and hands it over the music director, sitting back at his desk.

Sammy takes the check and proceeds to stand there, watching him as he starts writing something on an invoice.

Grant finally lets out a low sigh of exasperation, rubbing his hands against his temples. “I’ll make a deal. If I do it, will you leave?”

“Of course. I told you, I only want to listen.” Sammy approaches the desk, setting his check down. “Sing that song from before.”

Grant refuses to make eye contact. _“Sensations, of an invasion-”_

“Louder. From the chest, not the throat.”

“This is redi-”

“Try it. And straighten your back.”

Grant mutters something but does so, starting over again. _“Sensations, of an invasion, start to course right through our veins …”_

His snappy voice bounces along the notes with a surprising amount of force. Sammy nods and moves his hand in an upward gesture, encouraging him to go louder. Gradually the other man relaxes, closing his eyes as he continues. The song ends abruptly and Grant regains his bearings, clearing his throat and turning his attention back to the papers on his desk. “There. Now, I have a lot-”

“That was very impressive. Have you considered joining the music department? We’re always looking for new talent.”

Grant gives another beleaguered sigh. “I manage the finances. That’s it. Joey would probably have my head served on a silver platter if I suddenly took up another position without his approval, see.”

“Very well. But if you change your mind, come and say hello.” He starts for the door.

“Oh, and Sammy? Don’t, uh, tell anyone. Rumors get out, people start talking, and next thing you know there’s 50 people demanding a performance while I’m trying to work.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He closes the door and stands there for a moment, listening.

_“For now you must. build up our machine, you die tonight…”_

It’s halfway through the walk home that Sammy realizes he forgot his paycheck.


	3. A Threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grant has good reason to be afraid of Joey. After all, he's learned from experience.

_Sounds like a demon is loose in there,_ Lacie thinks to herself, knocking the end off her cigarette. She pauses for a moment before opening the door, deciding there was no real risk. “Grant, Bertrum needs to talk to-”

Joey immediately stops screaming and straightens himself. Grant falls back into his chair, coughing fiercely. She looks between the two of them, trying to peice together what just happened. The animator breaks the silence.

‘WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” Joey demands, storming over to her. Lacie looks up at him, not flinching.

“Bertrum needs to talk to him.” She gestures at the accountant, who’s no longer coughing but resting face-down on his desk. She meets Joey’s eyes, silently challenging him. “There a problem with that?”

Joey looks like he’s about to say something, then thinks better at it. He glances back at the accountant briefly, then smiles in a vain attempt to recompose himself. “Of course not. Might as well talk to him while he’s still here, right?” He gives a pointed look to Grant, then brushes past the mechanic and into the hall. Lacie watches him for a moment through narrowed eyes before walking back to the desk.

“You alright?” she asks. The accountant’s face is flushed, and he’s breathing heavier than what would be considered normal.

He runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “I… I’m fine. It’s nothing, really. Mr. Drew was just in one of his moods again. Apparently it’s my fault that we’re under budget this week, despite the fact that he’s the one who blew a few grand on that pointless machine upstairs.”

Lacie takes her cigarette out of her mouth as she squints at the bright red circular markings on the man’s neck. “Doesn’t look like nothing to me. Does he throttle all the employees around here, or is it just you?”

Grant doesn’t make eye contact. “The man has a temper like a nest of angry wasps… but he likes me the least. I’m the only one keeping the budget from going straight to hell, but apparently every little thing that happens is my fault.” He sniffs, straightening his ruffled suit jacket. “I don’t think he would’ve actually done anything. He’s slightly insane, but he’s not crazy, if you get what I’m saying.” He says it like it’s a joke, but his hands are still shaking.

“Mm-hm,” Lacie intones, not believing a word of it. She takes in the man’s appearance. The mechanic didn’t know Grant terribly well - she saw him frequently in the halls and on long elevator rides, but that was it. And yet even she can see how awful the man looks - dark circles under his eyes, normally carefully-groomed appearance now not-so carefully-groomed, and it doesn’t look like he’s showered in several days.

“Listen,” she says, taking another drag of the cigarette. ‘”If he gives you any trouble like that again, come and find me. I’m usually in somewhere in the research area.”

Grant eyes her. “He’ll fire you.”

Lacie lets out a short, harsh laugh. “Good luck with that. Bertrum’s my employer, not Joey, and I don’t think he’s dumb enough to fire the entire department. Most he can do is scream some more.”

Grant doesn’t saying anything more, but nods in understanding.

“Put some ice on those marks,” she adds as she leaves the room, the door closing heavily behind her.

Her eyes meet Joey’s as he stands at the end of the hall, waiting.


	4. A Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry mourns the loss of a friend.

“Here. Eat.”

Henry looks down at the bowl of warm bacon soup placed in front of him, knowing that he should be hungry. “Thanks.”

Allison sits down on a crate a few feet away, watching him stare into the soup. She glances at Thomas, who’s doing something-or-other with his mechanical arm, then back at Henry.

“It’s not your fault, you know.”

Henry sighs, putting his head in his hands. “Yes, it is. Boris was waiting for me the entire time, even while…” He trails off, shaking his head. “If I had just been a bit faster-”

He flinches as Thomas smacks his shoulder with his organic hand, giving the animator a stern look.

“Thomas is right. You can’t afford to spend all of your time mourning. Every second we stay here is another second the Ink Demon might be getting closer.” Allison glances towards the door, hand going momentarily to the hilt on her waist. 

“I know.” He forces himself to eat a spoonful of soup, already growing sick of the flavor.

“There was nothing else you could do anyway. He was already dead by that point, just a corpse being puppeted around. I know it hurts, but killing him properly was probably the best thing you could have done. Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to come back.”

Henry looks up from the soup in confusion. “What do you mean, come back?”

Thomas gives him a look, and Allison stares. “Wait, you haven’t realized yet?”

“Realized…?”

A look of understanding crosses Allison’s face, though Thomas seems more concerned than anything. “Henry, we-” she gestures vaguely to herself and Thomas “-can’t die. Our- I don’t know, souls?” She looks at Thomas for approval, who nods. “Our souls return to the ink if our bodies die, and the Machine recreates us. As long as the Machine’s on, we’ll always return. I thought you learned that the hard way with the Ink Demon.”

Thomas gives him a look, and Henry avoids eye contact. “Sorry. I didn’t realize. But that means Boris-”

“Is probably waiting for you by the Machine right now, wondering what’s taking you so long.”


	5. A Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lacie has a little "talk" with Joey.

Lacie looks Joey directly in the eyes as she enters his office, not bothering to knock.

“Where’s Grant?”

“Ah, Lacie. Always a pleasure.” He says it while smiling, but the smile isn’t in his voice.

“I’m not fucking around, Drew. Where is he?”

“Probably sulking around his house, I’d imagine, seeing as I fired him last week.”

“Bullshit. Shawn dropped by his place yesterday and it was completely empty.”

“Hmm, isn’t that odd? And what makes you think I had anything to do with it?” He takes out his cigarette and snuffs it out in the ashtray on his desk, never breaking his false cheeriness.

“I know people in prison that I’d trust sooner than you.” She leans in closer, putting her oil-covered hand on Joey’s polished desk. “And don’t think I didn’t notice those marks on his neck from last month.”

“But you can’t prove I had anything to do with that, now can you?” His voice is slowly losing it’s forced chipperness. “And the police certainly can’t prove I had anything to do with his ‘mysterious disappearance last week, so I think we’re done here.”

Lacie pulls back her fist and hits him.

The impact slams into his nose and nearly knocks him from his chair. She doesn’t give him a chance to right himself, instead grabbing him by his suit and slamming him in a nearby wall. “What the hell did you _do?”  
_

Joey looks at her venomously, blood dripping steadily from his nose. “If you really want to know-”

Before Lacie can respond Joey shoves her back with his foot, then takes the opportunity to grab a paperweight off the bookshelf. The object connects with her skull with a sickening cracking noise, and she stumbles momentarily before collapsing on the floor, blood running from the wound.

Joey takes a moment to pad his bloody nose with a handkerchief before picking up her unconscious body, balancing it over his shoulder. He checks the hallway before leaving the room.

“Don’t you worry about a thing,” he says, his upbeat personality back in full force. “You’ll get to see him again soon enough.”


	6. A Misunderstanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertrum realizes who Henry really is - or isn't.

The axe hits the bolt with a metallic screech. The arm of the ride collapses with a thud, ink and sparks flying out from the area. The machine jolts, turning again, and Henry barely manages to avoid being hit by one of the spinning carts.

He steps back for a moment, leaning on some crates as he catches his breath. The arm of the ride slams down dangerously close to him, but it can’t reach this distance. He’s safe -  for the moment.

Henry eyes the last two arms, which are fastened by four heavy bolts, trying to figure out the best way to approach them. The ride was moving faster now, each attack coming down with more force than the last. If he ran out at the wrong time, he could easily be killing by one of the moving carts. He crouches, counting the time between each hit.

“It’s going to be okay, Boris,” he says softly. The head in the center of the ride twitches grotesquely, glossy eyes looking straight at him. His grip on the axe tightens. “Just hold on a little longer.” He’s not sure if he’s trying to comfort Boris or himself. 

He runs out from the hiding spot, towards the center of the ride, only to be grazed by the side of one of the carts. The animator slams into the ground, clutching his side as a sharp pain rubs up his ribs. The machinery screeches as the cart lifts up, preparing to strike.

“I’m not Joey.”

The cart stays in the air, swaying slightly. This was a last-ditch effort; he doubted Bertrum - or what was left of him - would listen to him. But right now, he doesn’t have any other choice.

“My name is Henry. I used to work here…” he wheezes, struggling to stand back up. The cart suddenly swings downward, and he covers his head, preparing to be crushed.

The arm slams down with enough force to make the floor shake beneath him. Henry opens his eyes slowly, not daring to move. The speakers above him turn on with a crackling whine.

“No… you’re lying, just like you did all those years ago! Why else would you be in this place?” Bertrum demands, his voice mixed within the static. The head remains stationary, staring at him.

“Joey sent me a letter… we used to be friends… said he wanted to show me something…” He carefully feels his ribs, trying to figure out if anything was broken.

“Why should I believe anything _you_ say, Mr. Drew? I should think you off all people would do anything to save your own skin!” The arm jolts with a hissing noise, slowly raising off the ground. Henry eyes his axe, still lying several feet away.

“I don’t sound like Joey, do I? I don’t even look much like him.”

“People change over the years,” Bertrum insists, but his voice is softer, less sure. Henry eases himself upright.

“But you haven’t. And I doubt Joey has either.”

“No… it was supposed to be him that came down here. It was supposed to be my vengeance…!” The arm jerks and slowly withdraws backwards, pulling against the machine into a default position. The head is staring up the ceiling, no longer watching him. For a moment, Henry feels a strange stab of pity.

“Joey… did Joey do this?”

“He decided he didn’t need me anymore. Imagine, thinking you no longer _need_ the great Bertrum Piedmont!” His head shudders as more ink drips from the between the machinery, as if the ride itself is bleeding. “And then…” The head jerks suddenly, looking back at him through glossy eyes. “I was lucky to get away. I found a way to preserve myself, to keep myself whole and out of that atrocious ink. The look on Mr. Drew’s face when he would have realized… what a sight to behold.”

Henry feels slightly ill, but he doesn’t have time to think about it. He slowly stands up, not daring to take the axe again less it would provoke the machine again. “I’m sorry.”

He slowly straightens up, daring himself to look directly at the severed head. “But I need to find a friend who was taken, and I don’t have much time. Could you open those doors?”

The ride doesn’t move, but slowly the doors open with a wretched screeching sound, inch by inch. The carefully-sculpted panels around the inside of the machine pull shut, fully hiding what’s inside. Henry steps back from it carefully, then starts running.

“If you happen to find Mr. Drew… send him my way.”

The speakers turn off, and the doors slam shut behind him.


	7. A New Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allison and Thomas aren't used to this yet.

“I hate this.”

Thomas looks over at her and Allison hunches over her bowl, wrapping her hands around it. She knows that she should be able to feel the heat from the bowl, but there’s almost nothing.

“I’m tired of fighting all the time. I’m tired of being cold all the time. I’m tired of everyone dying all the time.” She gives up on the soup, leaning back against the wall. “I haven’t slept in days. I’m not even sure I need to anymore.” She laughs, but it’s not a happy sound.

Thomas gives her a look of sympathy, gesturing to his ears and snout. Allison watches him, trying to make out what the other was saying.

“I guess you’re right. At least I still have a mostly human body. I can’t imagine what those… creatures in the halls feel like.” She shivers, crossing her arms against her chest.

Thomas shakes his head, again gesturing to his ears, then moving his hand up.

“No? Higher… better… your hearing and smell are better, is that it?” Thomas gives her an approving nod, and Allison feels a moment of gratitude that she still managed to keep her voice. “You getting used to it?”

Thomas shrugs, looking slightly disgruntled.

“I think I teleported the other day,” she blurts out. She hadn’t really meant to say it, but suddenly it just felt right. ‘I mean, I was on one of the upper floors, and suddenly I was on the lower floors. I don’t know how, but I felt like I was falling back into the ink. It was terrifying.”

Thomas thinks over it for a moment, then makes two horn shapes above his head with his fingers.

“I guess the Ink Demon can do that too. Maybe Susie can. I don’t know, I try to stay away from her. Obviously.” She runs her hand over her flat horns, then over her halo - more of a headband than anything. “Guess that makes me more of a demon than an angel, huh?

Thomas moves over to her and puts a hand reassuringly on her back, and for a second, she feels warm.


	8. A Sheep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry has a talk with the Lost Ones.

“How long have you been down here?”

The inky figures shuffle nervously, unsure if they should speak to the outsider.

“A long time, I think,” one of them says softly. Some of the others nod.

“And you did you end up like… this?” Henry keeps a close eye on the figures less they try to attack, but they don’t seem to be inclined. If anything, they seem slightly nervous of  him.

“O- Our lord is merciful,” one of them speaks up. Henry recognizes the voice from the figure who had been up on the balcony earlier. “He saved us from the puddles and- and granted us new forms.” A few soft “amen”s rise from the group.

“And Sammy? Is he a part of this?”

“He’s our leader.” This voice sounds vaguely feminine. Then, quieter: “He doesn’t like us talking to non-believers.”

“He’ll come back down here again,” someone else titters, and the group becomes skittish.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Sammy is…” He thought back to the prophet’s last scream, embedded into his mind. “Gone,” is all he manages to say.

“He found me upstairs earlier,“ the balcony voice frets. “Forced me to come back down here. He looked terrible, but he was there.”

“Not like we can die anyway,” someone else says, sounding like they’re on the verge of tears. One of the others moves towards them comfortingly, putting a hand on their back.

“He’ll punish us all if he sees us with him!”

“Not to mention if Bendy-”

“You need to go, now!”

The crowd stirs, and the sudden surge of negativity puts Henry on edge. He holds up his hands in surrender, carefully moving back towards the door. “Okay, okay. I’m going.” The crowd watches him through glowing eyes, slowly growing quiet.

He puts his hand on the knob - then hears a voice to his left, where no one is standing.

_“There you are, my sheep.”_


	9. A Transformation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, the sacrifices go wrong.

“Did we do something wrong?”

“Maybe the Gods are angry with us…”

Grant wreathes around blindly. He needs to be able to move, to scream, to do _something-_

“Don’t touch it,” someone says. The voices are only slightly louder than those he can hear in his head, and he struggles to focus through all the noise. Something presses against him, _into_ him for a moment, then quickly withdraws at the sound of the other voice.

_Move._

He manages to claw his way forward a bit, convulsing as his body manages to form what might have been an arm. Someone in the group screams, and someone else swears loudly. He can hazily remember figures, figures with rope and needles and thread-

What’s left of his body gives one last shudder before collapsing completely, and he struggles blindly in the dark, overcome by the sensation of drowning. Everything is dark, and claustrophobically _tight,_ and he can’t think, can’t breathe, it’s so cold-

Grant collapses onto the floor and lies there, heaving. A burning sensation starts where his eyes should be, and slowly his vision comes into focus in shades of black and white. He manages to process that there’s a shattered pipeline of ink above him, raining down on him in a steady stream. Nearby is the elevator, doors open.

Suddenly he’s in the elevator, his mind struggling to remember how he got there. He hits buttons at random, hoping one of them is the correct floor, then collapses as his form once again twists painfully. He struggles to scream, but something is keeping his mouth shut, and the noise escapes as a thin cry caught within his throat. There’s something else there in his mind and he snarls involuntarily, struggling to stay in control. He needs to call for help, he needs to tell someone what’s happened…

He’s stumbling down the hallway towards his office, liquid ink trailing off of him and staining the floor below. He swears the hallway is closing in on him, the walls are moving and there’s ink dripping from -

He collapses in the doorway as something pushes its way out of his side. He’s not sure what it is, but it’s underdeveloped and it’s not supposed to be there and it hurts-

Snarling, he claws at himself, digging straight into the ink and sending waves of it splashing on to the floor. It’s not blood, at least he thinks it’s not blood, _am I still human-_

Grant crawls up over the back of the wooden chair at his desk, more ink spilling onto the polished surface as he fumbles for the recorder. As he does so his body convulses for a final time, the liquid parts shifting like soft clay and the flesh-like parts breaking and rearranging themselves. He struggles to breathe, struggles to focus, struggles to keep from transforming any further - then growls. He flails blindly, knocking over something and crushing something under his foot, the fresh shock of pain dragging him back to his senses. Something is clogging his newly-formed throat, he can’t _breathe-_

He whimpers, heaving up something thick and black, then slumps over, breathing in slowly.

Some barely conscious part of his mind realizes the tape recorder is still playing, and he claws at it until it finally clicks off, his message unheard.

And so he puts it, and what’s left of his sanity, onto the walls.


	10. An Idiot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas has a soft spot for Wally. Good luck getting him to admit it.

“So when one of these pipes is leaking, we cut off pressure from the main valve, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And _then_ we clean up all the extra ink so we can see where the break is, right?”

“Good. And then?”

“We…” Wally’s brows furrowed in thought. “Wait, I got it! We repair the pipe and then turn the pressure back on so the ink can keep flowin’!”

Thomas lets out a very beleaguered sigh, dragging his hands down his face. “No. We’ve been over this a hundred goddamn times. You have to completely _replace_ the pipe before turning on the flow, and you keep the pressure low to make sure it holds. Doing what you just said would break the thing again and flood the entire hallway, and you’d probably injure yourself in the process.”

“You act like this is so easy! Tell you what, buster: if you’re so smart, why don’t you do it?”

“I ALREADY AM DOING IT!”

It was a pretty normal conversation for them.

* * *

Thomas watches the ink spilling out of the nozzle of the shattered pipe, steadily filling the hallway and coating the walls in the cold liquid. Allison looks at him and he motions for her to find a shortcut, then turns his attention back to the leak. He grabs the straps of Boris’ overalls as he goes to follow her and gives him a warning growl, pointing at the flooded area.

Thomas shuts down the valve flow while Boris fetches some rags, and together they work on cleaning the broken line. Once it’s finally done he pulls a rag from his overall pocket, wiping the excess ink off his snout and face - and looks up to find Boris reaching for the valve.

He runs forward and tackles him to the ground right as the ink comes surging back in at full force, shattering the freshly repaired pipe and sending a powerful jet of ink mixed with glass into the wall where they had just been standing.

Once an idiot, always an idiot.


	11. A Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammy comes across an old friend.

Sammy hears screaming.

It’s not an uncommon thing to hear in the studio, of course, and normally he would pay it no mind. But this screaming sounds… inhuman. Mechanical, almost.

Rather than trying to move towards the sound he instead moves away from it, seeping into the crack in the far wall of the booth. He hates doing this - the sensation is claustrophobic, the voices from the puddles too loud, like he could melt back into them at any second-

It’s horrifying. But it’s safe.

He waits for a long time, listening. Two more screams pierce the air at random intervals. It was likely that the source was being attacked by the Searchers littering the halls, Sammy muses, which means that it wasn’t one of them. The thought puts him more on edge.

After what feels like hours, something finally happens. First, footsteps, slow and heavy, and then a light. Sammy briefly wonders if someone’s holding a flashlight, but as the light grows brighter he realizes that it’s too bright for that. If he still had human eyes, he feel like he would’ve been blinded by now.

Slowly, the creature comes into view. The body looks human, but there’s a projector sitting where the thing’s head should be, wired straight into its torso. It moves deliberately, projector dipping towards the floor, as if the weight of it was dragging him down.

He hasn’t seen this creature before. But he has seen its body.

“Norman?”

Norman doesn’t respond, or perhaps he simply wasn’t capable of hearing. Instead he continues his slow walk to the projector, then begins to open it up, fiddling with something inside. _Maintenancing it,_ Sammy realizes. Norman used to frequently visit this section to upkeep the projectors and to make sure they were running smoothly. But now the action has no meaning. No one was here, and no one would be watching it.

A Searcher spawns from the ink behind Norman. He doesn’t seem to notice. 

The Searcher crawls forward, then lunges, grabbing at the wires on his back, and the thing‘s speaker crackles to life with another ear-piercing scream. The Projectionist whips around, drenching the Searcher in light. He plunges his hand into the inky mass and knocks it back to the floor, then brings his boot down on it, hard. Ink splatters the walls, looking unnervingly like blood.

Sammy is suddenly very glad he had decided to hide.

The creature continues to try to crush the ink underfoot, as if not comprehending that it was already dead. He finally stops and his projector tilts, as if he was confused by the Searcher’s lack of response. Or perhaps he was just trying to see it better.

The attack seems to have been forgotten as quickly as it came, and Norman skulks back to the projector. He continues to thread the reel back through it, and he doesn’t seem to realize or care that the ink from his hands is staining the footage.

He closes the projector back up and light fills the area as some old Bendy cartoon fills the screen. He starts to trudge back to the hallway - then stops, his light filling the crack where Sammy is hiding.

He doesn’t dare move.

The creature turns away.

Sammy slowly reforms, doing his best not to cry out as his body slowly pulls itself back together. He stands as soon as he has legs again, cautiously following the creature. Apparently it had done what it had intended to, and it leaves the department, killing another Searcher along the way.

* * *

_“Sammy.”_

_“What?” he asks, more aggressively than he should. He knows that anything that the projectionist would tell him wouldn’t be something he wanted to hear._

_Norman remains stoic, taking his cigarette from his mouth. “If you’re going to be using this here projector, turn it off before you go running off to who knows where. I’ve already replaced the bulb twice this week because you keep burnin’ it out.”_

_Sammy narrows his eyes. “I thought you didn’t want me using your projector.”_

_Norman takes another drag on the cigarette, studying him._

_“I don’t.”_


	12. A Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wally and Shawn are still getting used to a relationship.

“Listen pal, I know a bad idea when I see it, and this is one of ‘em.”

“Oh, relax for once. You don’t be seeing anyone around, do you?”

“I mean- no,” Wally admits, blushing slightly in embarrassment. “But what if someone comes walking in here and sees us together?”

“Then we’ll just tell ‘em we’re having a drink or somethin’.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“Christ, you’re a paranoid bastard. Come here.” Shawn pulls the other man closer, pushing him against his side. “There. Now if anyone comes in we’ll just be telling them that I walked you home because you’re drunk off your ass and you fell asleep on top of me in a drunken stupor.”

Wally laughs, though Shawn can feel him relax against him. “Cant’ argue that’s not believable enough. Alright, you win this round, pally.”

“Oh, I do? I think I deserve a prize, then.” He puts his hand on the back of Wally’s neck and pulls him down, then kisses him gently on the lips.

Wally pulls back and scrambles to the other side of the couch, blushing furiously.

“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?”

“What do you mean, what was that? I was kissing ‘ya!”

“Well, you- you can’t just run around kissing other fellows on the lips!”

“WE’VE BEEN DATIN’ FOR SIX MONTHS!”

“Stop yelling for half a second! You’re gonna wake up the neighbors!” 

“ _I’m_ going to wake up the neighbors?” Shawn asks indignantly. Wally ignores him, instead climbing over the couch to peer through the curtains, checking to see if anyone’s watching. Shawn sighs and leans back against the arm of the couch as Wally sits back down on the other end.

Neither speak for a while.

“Listen,” Shawn finally starts, “Do you want to be a couple, or not?”

“I mean- yeah, of course I do.” Wally picks at the edge of his sleeve, not making eye contact. “I just- look, I’m not used to this, okay? You have to warn a guy before you run around stealin’ kisses from him.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I thought you’d enjoy a surprise, but you’re a jumpier bastard than I thought.” He gets up and moves back to Wally’s side, taking his hand. “I won’t do it again, okay?”

“I mean… I’m not _necessarily_ opposed to trying again the future. Just warn a guy, okay?”

He leans in closer and pushes Waly’s red hair away from his face, giving him a small kiss.on the forehead.

“Deal.”


	13. A Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joey's not perfect, but he certainly thinks he is. Or was.

He can’t see anything. He can’t move.

Joey mentally gropes around in the darkness, trying to find something to latch onto. Something pulls him in and he latches onto it, and suddenly he can see again. He’s not in the room that used to hold the Ink Machine, but out in a  hallway in the third floor, staring at a wall.

He still can’t move.

He focuses, pushing the voices crowding his mind away, then crawls forward, writhing around. Despite the hallway being empty, he feels claustrophobic, trapped.

Something is wrong.

Joey pulls himself forward, down, then feels himself land on something freezing cold. He crawls forward more, falling onto something else. His broken mind manages to piece together than despite seeing the hallway, he’s still at the Machine, which means-

His body twists, turns, reforms. Despite the pain, he forces himself not to fight against it. He needs this to work, he needs to be _perfect-_

His body forms slowly. Too slowly,

Joey crawls across the floor, grabbing at some sort of object in front of him. The ink shifts, forming skin, bone. He tries to scream, but he can’t open his mouth. It splits, widening into an impossibly large grin, and he claws at his face helplessly, trying to get the ink off-

Horns form unevenly, skin forms and then melts back off, bones split forward and nearly rip off his skin. A bow tie forms out of his skin, then a glove. He still can’t see, but he can hear the sound of ink pouring around him, dripping from the ceiling.

Bendy drags himself across the floorboards, too weak to stand. He mentally searches again, finding another spot of light, this one letting him see the hallway outside. He continues to move forward, overpowered by the roar of the Machine, the creaking of the boards under his weight, the noise of the ink dripping from the ceiling…

He pulls himself into the hallway until he can see himself, as if looking into a mirror.

He wants to scream.

But he’s still smiling.


	14. A Projector

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alice creates The Projectionist.

She knows she shouldn’t be crying.

People - if you could even call them that - die in the studio every day. Not a moment passes where some poor soul isn’t screaming as their body melts away into the puddles, or anther monster tears out their heart. It was simply the kind of world they lived in now. She alone was responsible for her fair share of killings.

Maybe it was just because he hadn’t shown any fear of her. Maybe it was because he willingly worked with her despite her threats on his life, serving as her eyes around the studio. Or maybe it was because he had been there for her when she had first lost her role as Alice, reassuring her as she cried into  his shoulder that everything would work out.

It hadn’t.

Susie slips away again and Alice wipes the tears away with the back of her hand, kneeling beside the corpse. Liquid ink flows from his neck where his head should have been, leading up into a dark splatter against the wall where the demon had attacked him.

“There, there. I’m going to make you even _more useful_ than you were before.” She chuckles to herself softly as she runs a black hand along his neck, then slides her hands under the body, gently lifting it off the ground. It was already starting to melt.

“I’m sorry,” Susie whispers as she makes her way up the stairs. She doesn’t know if he can hear her.

* * *

Alice hums to herself as she works.

“Almost done,” she announces, sinking another wire into his back. Extra thick ink was used to stabilize the corpse, and she had quickly set to work making her modifications. She had located a small speaker to place within his chest, wiring it to the projector sitting on his neck. The ink had taken to it immediately, seeping over it and seamlessly fusing it with his body.

She had picked out a projector - loaded with reels of her cartoons, of course - as a replacement for his head. It was certainly something he had a connection to - the chances of his ink rejecting it were slim to none. And, of course, she - Alice Angel - brought light to everything she touched. The irony is not lost on her. 

She steps back, admiring her handiwork as she gazes at the creature strapped upright to the table. Some small part of her weeps, but she ignores it, pushing it to the back of her mind. _He should feel blessed,_ she thinks, drawing a halo on the table over the projector. It was rare to receive an angel’s mercy.

She moves away and presses the button controlling the shock system, which starts up with a soft hum. The body doesn’t move, but the projector flickers slightly. She stops, waits a moment, then starts again. _Only enough to power the electronics,_ she reminds herself. No more, no less.

The projector flickers again, one, twice, then stays on. She lets go of the button, watching.

It starts to scream.

It screams blindly, ferally, not from a mouth but from the speaker in its chest. It thrashes so hard against the straps binding it that for a moment Alice thinks he’s going to break them off completely, but she refuses to move from her position within the blindingly white light. One of the reels dislodges itself from the projector and falls into the still-hardening ink comprising his shoulder. She does not attempt to fix it.

After a few minutes the creature stops screaming and slumps forward within the straps, becoming limp. Alice steps forward, basked within the blinding light.

“There we go. You wouldn’t hurt your angel, would you?” She begins undoing the restraints and The Projectionist stands there limply for a moment, then begins walking forward, entire body dipping forward with the effort as if the projector was dragging it down. She closes the gate behind him, just to make sure. Black tears run down her face, but they’re not from her.

Outside, she can hear screaming.


	15. A Realization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry realizes who Boris is.

Joey isn’t there.

Henry walks around his apartment, just to check. There’s no sign of him, but the heat still being on suggested he hadn’t been gone for long. He debates on trying to run. Run, and go where? He didn’t exactly look like a real person, not the same way Joey did. _Could always search his apartment,_ he reasons, picking up an old newspaper and flipping through it. _Might be something useful._

Fifteen minutes later, Henry has made very little progress on his search. Despite the piles of papers Joey seemed to leave lying around, none of them seemed to be about the studio or the story, and were instead mundane things like tax returns and receipts. Then, finally, he finds something, stashed away in Joey’s desk drawer.

“CHARACTERS FOR BENDY AND THE INK MACHINE” the top reads. Underneath is a list of employee names, some of which he recognizes. _Susie - Alice. Tom - Boris. Bertrum - Ride?_ Grant’s name has several scribbled over options next to it with no apparent choice made, and several employees have a dash mark in the second column, as if whatever he was listing wasn’t applicable to them. Then he spots it

_Wally - Boris_

"Henry, there you are!” Henry startles and turns at the sound of Joey’s voice - he was surprisingly stealthy for someone in a wheelchair. He’s smiling, but Henry can tell he’s actually displeased. “I was looking for you! Sorry for the hold up. The line at the bank ran longer than I expected.“

“Joey.” Henry holds up the paper. “What is this?”

Joey finally stops smiling.

“I know, I know, you have questions. You always do!”

* * *

He doesn’t forget. At least, he doesn’t forget everything.

He stays in the safehouse for as long as possible, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut every time he looks at Boris, who’s as clueless as always. 

“Let’s just stay in here,” he says when Boris tries to pass him the handle. “Please, let’s stay here.”

It works for a while. Eventually the Ink Demon approaches, staining the walls black, and they’re forced to flee. Henry isn’t surprised.

“Boris, help me find these Searchers, okay? I’ll keep you safe.” Not that he needed to, of course. Boris wasn’t meant to die this early on.

Henry motions for him to kneel down behind one of the barrels strewn about the place as The Projectionist crosses in front of them, right on cue. Henry’s gaze shifts from him to the tape lying on top of the barrel, mind drifting back to Joey’s notes. He clicks it on, even though he’s well aware of what it’ll say already, trying to ignore the ever-growing pit in his stomach.

_“I don’t get it. Everyone’s walking around here like grandma just died…”_

"Does this sound…familiar to you?” Boris tilts his head, hand on his chin in contemplation. Henry looks back at the tape, shaking his head. Of course Wally wasn’t Boris. Boris was Boris.

“C’mon, buddy. Let’s go,” he says, moving to leave. Boris doesn’t budge.

“Boris?’ The wolf has a concerned look his face. Henry tugs on his arm but the cartoon remains stationary, staring at the tape. That’s all the confirmation Henry needs.

“We can take it with us,” he offers. Boris’ ears perk up at the offer.

* * *

Boris was still holding the tape when he was taken, but it’s gone now. Henry wonders what happened to it. The idea of Alice ripping it out of his hands, then ripping into _him_ , makes him feel mildly ill. He focuses on dodging the cart being thrown his way instead. One more firm hit with the pipe wrench, and the wolf’s down for the count.

Henry ignores Alice’s shrieking as he kneels down beside the fallen beast. It had been a long time since he was able to muster any sort of emotion about his death - seeing it happen dozens upon dozens of times had completely numbed him. But this time, he reaches out and carefully puts a hand on the creature’s shoulder, which is already turning black.

“I’m sorry, Wally.”

There’s nothing left but ink.


	16. A Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertrum and Lacie find each other.

It takes Bertrum a long time to notice that something’s fiddling around with the bolts on one of his many arms. There’s a sudden, pinching pain, then it’s gone, replaced with a sense of limberness he hasn’t felt in years. The ink flows up through the mechanics of the ride and pushes the doors open a bit, just enough to allow him to see outside.

It takes him a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the change in lighting, and his poor eyesight doesn’t help matters. After a few moments he can make out a small form kneeling down beside one of his arms, fiddling about with a wrench. He can’t make out the details, but he can clearly see a misshapen head swinging freely from a fishing pole.

_Awful creatures._ They didn’t venture down here often, but they always attacked when they did, and their small size made them surprisingly hard to hit. He had already killed one of them, some type of spider, and the corpse was still lying outside of the room as far as he was aware. Apparently, this did not dissuade the one currently beside him.

Berturm draws steam into the valves in his  third arm, preparing to raise it and strike as soon as the creature moved far enough away. It twists the wrench one more time and then removes it - and the feeling suddenly returns to his arm. _It’s not trying to injure me,_ he realizes. It was trying to _fix_ him.

He closes the door a bit more, hiding in the shadows as he watches. The creature moves from arm to arm, tightening each bolt in succession, occasionally chattering something unintelligible under its breath, or wiping blood-like ink off on its legs..

Bertrum didn’t recognize her, not in this state. But he did recognize her behavior, her way of muttering while working, wiping grease and oil on her pants haphazardly. The speaker on the wall crackles to life as he speaks.

“Lacie?”

The Fisher suddenly turns, head swinging wildly from the pole as she looks in one direction, then another, apparently unaware of what he had become. She stands and snarls anxiously, starting to pace about on the floor. 

_“Bertrum…?”_ The noise is distorted and deep, almost a snarl, and certainly nothing like Lacie’s voice used to sound. He carefully releases some of the built-up steam and shifts the nearby cart off the ground, being careful not to accidentally strike her. How ironic, that they would be so similar in their damned forms, heads missing from their bodies, and yet nearly opposites in size.

“I’m still here, Lacie.” He doesn’t bother to clarify where “here” is, instead positioning the cart in front of her. “Sit. Rest.”

She emits a few more gutteral noises, looking around, then finally pulls herself into the cart. He moves the entire arm upward, off the ground, just in case anything suddenly wanders in and tries to attack. After a few minutes she lies down, head dangling off the edge of the seat. He can see she’s breathing somehow, but each breath is labored, like it hurt. He wonders if she was in as much pain as he was.

“Rest for now, my old friend,” He slowly closes the doors the rest of the way, returning back to the darkness. “I will avenge both of us.”


	17. An Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry finds out what happened to Grant.

The walls here are black. Henry can see where the wood’s been covered with ink, so dark that it’s become permanently stained. Huge webs, also black, criss-cross the exposed ceiling beams above him, swaying gently despite there being no breeze. Up ahead, there’s a light.

He places a hand on the wall for guidance, wondering how he got here, and starts to step forward, the rotting floorboards creaking ominously beneath his feet. Ink drips rhythmically from somewhere above. His mind wanders.

A loud snarl startles him back to attention.

His gaze follows the sound up above, and as his eyes adjust to the darkness he can see one of the Strikers on the beams. It’s walking on all sixes, pacing erratically. Without warning it suddenly slams its head into the black wall, some sort of muffled, distressed noise coming from one of its mouths. It thrashes about, clawing at the inside of its head-mouth violently enough to draw ink.

_It’s completely insane,_ Henry realizes. He takes another step forward - only to hear the board creak loudly under his weight.

The Striker turns, staring at him with an unnervingly human eye. It emits a human-like whimper - was it trying to say something? - then begins to scramble down the beams, its multiple limbs making the climb effortless. Now that it’s in the light, Henry can see the deep gouges in its skin where the thing had been clawing at itself, as if trying to get the ink off.

Henry turns and rushes forward, no longer concerned with making noise but instead focusing on dodging the rotten areas of the boards. The Striker jumps down from the ceiling to the floor with a sickening crunching noise, the first mouth whimpering, the second one snarling, a black substance leaking from the human eye.

It leaps at him.

The floorboard breaks as Henry hits the cartoon with it. It drops to the floor, both letting out muffled whimpers and choking, gargling noises, twitching terribly. It finally dissolves away, and Henry drops the board, taking a moment to let his breathing return to normal. He walks backwards for a few steps, as if expecting it to come back to life and attack him again.

The black walls are starting to have gaps in the darkness, which only seem to increase as he moves forward. Henry’s mind drifts back to the noise the creature had made before attacking. Human-like, two syllables…

_Hen-ry?_

He stares back out into the lobby in front of him - and at the walls around him, which have become more sepia than black now. The ink’s become sparse enough that he can read it. 

He stares at the writing all around him.

**TIME IS MONEY TIME IS MONEY TIME IS MONEY TIME IS MONEY TIME IS MONEY TIME IS MONEY TIME IS MONEY TIME IS MONEY TIME IS**


	18. A Screwdriver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry makes it back to Joey's apartment.

"Henry? So soon? I wasn’t expecting you for another hour yet. Now you’re just trying to impress me.”

Henry is already tuning out what Joey is saying - he’s starting to remember that he always more or less gave the same speech when he arrived. Probably because Joey wasn’t expecting him to remember the other times.

Henry runs his hand over his back pocket.

He won’t forget. Not this time.

* * *

He forgot. _  
_

_DON’T TURN ON THE MACHINE_

Henry lowers the seeing tool, watching as the message vanishes before him, wondering both what the message was and how he had ended up with the tool in his hands. He hadn’t brought it in with him, had he?

He holds it up again, inspecting the near wall.

_CHECK YOUR POCKETS_

He frowns, digging around. Sure enough, he locates a miniature screwdriver in his back pocket. There’s something different about it - the blue handle is striking against the monotone yellows all around him, and the object feels like it has more depth than everything else, including himself. He frowns, trying to remember where he got it from. He thinks of Joey, briefly, but the thought is gone as soon as it came.

_BREAK THE LOCK —- >_

The arrow leads him back to the door. He opens it, expecting it to pop open and reveal the studio’s run-down parking lot, but the knob refuses to turn. _Locked?_ He just came in here - how could it be locked?

Henry ignores the ominous feeling in his stomach and kneels by the door. He inserts the screwdriver into the middle, feeling the tumblers inside click as the tip hits them. After a good fifteen minutes the door unlocks with a satisfying clicking noise, and he opens it, stepping into the blinding light.

Joey looks up from his book, shock spreading across his face as he processes what he’s looking at. Henry smiles, already remembering.

“Well? Are you impressed?”


	19. A Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shawn and Wally find each other again.

Charley slumps down against the wall, gasping for breath. It wasn’t uncommon for one of his organs to suddenly dislodge or fail completely on him, but his time it hurt worse than usual. He slides his remaining hand into the permanently-open wound in his stomach, rearranging his insides. The pain subsides, but doesn’t go away completely.

The noise of something clattering pulls his attention away and he grabs his pipe again, hobbling forward through the dark hallway. As he turns the next corner, he can just barely make out the source of the noise - a Boris, trying to unsuccessfully open a can of bacon soup with his teeth. The wolf spots him and immediately crouches down on the floor, hands over his eyes, apparently hoping the nearby vending machine would provide some cover.

The Piper snarls. He doesn’t recognize this particular Boris, but he can remember him - not from the studio but from the cartoons, where everything was simpler but somehow felt less real. The wolf was always getting in their way, fooling their attempts to get rid of Bendy just by his mere presence. He was certainly a pest. and he was on _their_ territory, which only angers him more.

He wants to attack, but the pain in his side makes him hesitate. He’s not sure where Barley or Edgar wandered off to, and even though Boris isn’t trying to fight him he’s starting to doubt he could kill him at all in this state. Instead he decides to approach not with the intent to kill, but the intent to mug. If he was going to be here, they might at least get something useful from him.

Charley growls at him, pointing at his pockets, then the ground. Boris obliges, turning them inside out and letting the contents fall on the floor. There’s not much - some screws, a can opener (why wasn’t he using that on the soup?) - and a ring of keys.

He stares at the keys, something stirring in his mind. Those had been… his? No, not his, someone else’s, someone who he was around a lot. He shudders, memories creeping back. He was laughing with someone, calling him an idiot, kissing his nose and cheeks when he thought he could get away with it. The man wore overalls, had freckles, some kind of accent, and he had a name -

Shawn drags himself forward, lucid. He raises his only remaining hand, wincing as the Boris flinches at the gesture. He reaches out, slowly, placing the hand on his snout and scratching the soft peach-like fuzz there.

_“Wally,”_ he rasps. It’s not a question, but rather a statement, a confirmation. The wolf looks back at him, terror and confusion in his eyes, and Shawn’s heart sinks as he realizes he doesn’t recognize him. Of course he didn’t. He doubted the wolf even recognized himself.

_“It’s me, Wally”,_ he whispers, the noise hurting his throat. He rests his head against Boris’ trembling shoulder as slips away again, memories dissolving away like a burnt film reel.

Chattering behind him pulls him away, and when he turns Barley is standing halfway around the corner. She growls at him and he snarls back, a warning not to attack this particular Boris, even if he can’t remember why anymore. She chatters angrily and disappears again around the corner. Charley follows, stopping only to grab something from Boris’ piles of belongings.

After Boris calms down he grabs his soup and runs out of the room, wondering why Charley wanted his keys.


	20. A Memo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Susie discovers she lost her role as Alice.

_“I ain’t no flapper, I’m a classy dish, and boy, can this girl sing.I’m Alice An-gel!”_

Sammy nods from behind the glass, encouraging her to keep going. She hits each note flawlessly, tuning out everything but the music. She finishes, the “recording” sign turns off, and Sammy steps into the booth.

“Nicely done, Allison.”

“Thanks.” She tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “I wasn’t too pitchy, was I?”

“No, not at all.” Despite Sammy’s reassurances, she can tell he isn’t 100% happy with her performance. Or perhaps he just preferred Susie’s take on it? Either way, he doesn’t request another recording. “Let’s take a break. Get some water and be back here in five minutes.”

Allison steps out the booth, taking her water canister from the table beside her and drinking it as she walks - and nearly crashes into Susie, who was approaching from the opposite hall.

“Oh! Hey, Susie. Sorry, I didn’t see you.”

“It’s fine. I was probably walking too fast. I’m just so excited to record today, you know? We’re doing another big musical scene today.” Susie smooths out her curls, which are already coming undone from her headband, and Allison tries to figure out what she’s talking about. Side characters didn’t usually get songs, did they? Unless-

“Sorry, got to go. I’ll catch you later, all right?” Susie bounds off before Allison has a chance to speak.

She watches the scene unfold from a distance, too far away to hear anything. Susie goes up to Sammy, asking him something. Sammy looks surprised, asks something, and now Susie looks surprised. He takes her aside, whispering something gently, and Susie nods, her body language instantly changing. She walks out and then picks up speed to a run, brushing past Allison without even noticing her. She can clearly see the tears streaming down the other woman’s face, smudging her carefully-applied mascara.

Allison walks back to the both and grabs Sammy by the arm. “I thought you told her!” she whispers angrily, as if Susie could somehow still hear her. Sammy shakes his head.

“I thought I did too. _Apparently,_ she never got the memo. Leave it to Joey to make it impossible to leave messages where everyone can see them…” Allison lets go of his arm, stepping back.

“I feel terrible. I thought she already knew and was okay with loosing the role. I mean, I guess it makes sense she’d be upset, but…” Allison shakes her head, her dark hair falling over her eyes. “Maybe I should go talk to her and explain what happened.”

“I think that’ll only make her feel worse,” Sammy advises, looking to where Susie had ran off. “She probably just wants to be alone right now.”

“Right.” The statement is probably meant to reassure her, but it only makes her feel worse. Sammy puts a hand on her shoulder gently.

“I’m sorry, but we really need to finish this next scene-”

“Yes, of course. I guess Susie can sort it out on her own.” She forces herself to move back towards the recording booth. She still didn’t feel comfortable in Alice’s role yet, and she certainly didn’t now.

The recording light clicks on, and Allison forces herself to sing again as the record starts up.

_“I’m just a lonely angeeel…”_


	21. A Breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry finally breaks.

By the time Joey gets back to his apartment Henry is kneeling on the floor, digging through piles of letters, notes, and storyboards.

“Henry! There you are!” He wheels over to his side, clapping a hand on his sketchy shoulder. “You did good this last time. I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to fix things. You always do!”

Henry doesn’t respond. In his lap is a letter Joey had received from Henry a few years ago - not the self-caricature kneeling before him but the actual person, wising him well over the holidays.

“Joey.” Henry’s voice is dull, emotionless. “Who am I?”

Joey stops smiling. “You’re Henry, of course.”

“No. This-” He holds up the paper. “- _This_ was sent by Henry. The _real_ Henry. I didn’t send this.”

“Listen, Henry. I’ve always said that life isn’t what you’re given, but what you make of it. You’re technically a drawing, but that just means that you’re _better_ than the real Henry!” Joey plucks the letter from his hands, adding a soft “You won’t run off like _he_ did’ under his breath.

“Linda… I wanted to see her if I escaped, reassure her that I was all right… But she didn’t even know I was missing, did she? Because _I_ was never missing.” He looks up at the ceiling.

“Who cares about Linda?”

Henry flinches as he rips the paper in half in front of him. He stares at the halves as they fall to the floor, not moving to pick them up.

“The fact that she doesn’t care about you means that you shouldn’t care about her either! Just forgot her, like you do everything else. _I’m_ here, Henry. I care.” Joey places a hand on his back reassuringly. 

“I care.”

Joey snaps back to attention as Henry stands up, pacing.

“When I was trapped in there, when I wasn’t sure if I would make it out alive… she was the only thing keeping me going! But it was all fake, the studio’s fake, _I’m_ fake! There’s no damn point to any of this Joey! There’s not-”

Henry closes his eyes, crumpling back to the floor. Joey returns to his side, setting a hand on his shaking shoulder.

“Please.” The animator’s voice is wavering on the edge of tears. “Just tell it again already. Let me forget.”

Joey removes his hand and wheels himself out of the way, sighing. Maybe some other time, then. “Henry, come visit the old workshop. There’s something I need to show you.”

Henry’s pose immediately relaxes as all of his new memories fade away, leaving him a clean slate for the beginning of the story. He stands up and walks through the front door almost hypnotically, disappearing into the sketchy world that’s appeared behind it.

Joey picks up the remains of the letter and burns it.


	22. A Truce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry befriends the Butcher Gang.

Henry pulls out another cog and pockets it, wiping ink off of his face. “Three down,” he mutters to himself. He had already been attacked four times on this level alone, and he doubted that was the end of it. He grasps the pipe wrench tighter, noting how usually cold it was against his skin.

The chattering of a nearby Butcher Gang member draws his attention, and he kneels down behind a nearby chest, cautiously peering around the side as he waits for whatever it was to approach.

Nothing happens.

He cautiously moves forward, the gargled noises getting louder. Then he spots it - a Striker a few feet away, lying on the ground. He kneels down again, watching as it lunges towards him, snarling, only to fall again. _It’s trapped,_ he realizes, looking at the thing’s right arm., which was buried under some fallen rubble. He moves closer and it lifts its head, making a disturbingly human-like noise. It almost sounded like it was asking for help.

_This is stupid,_ Henry thinks to himself, glancing down the hall from where he came to make sure nothing was pursuing him. He moves closer to the Striker, making sure to keep a good amount of distance between himself and the creature’s extendable arm.

He drops down quickly, shifting the smaller pieces of rock away. The Striker snarls and lashes its arm at out him, then quickly falls back to the ground, breathing heavily through the mouth on its head. Henry resumes his work, moving the largest boulders out of the way.

The Striker grabs at the ground as Henry moves the last rock, pulling itself free. It scampers a few feet away, broken arm hanging uselessly at its side.

Henry leans back against the exposed wall, catching his breath, as the Striker looks at him, snapping its head-teeth together repeatedly. It abruptly darts off and returns a moment later with a can of bacon soup, which it rolls over to him.

“Is this my reward for helping?” It’s really not much of a reward, considering how many cans there are lying around the place, but he’s just happily surprised that it wasn’t attacking him.

More chattering fills the hall. The Striker hobbles forward towards the left hall as two other small figures emerge. _Must be his “friends”_ , Henry realizes, grimacing. The Fisher looks at Edgar’s broken arm, growling at him. Charley, meanwhile, is more interested in Henry, who’s already climbing on top of the rock pile for safety. Henry raises the pipe wrench, prepared for a fight.

Edgar runs forward, grabbing the Piper’s shoulder with its extending arm. Charley snarls at him and the spider lets out some kind of garbled noise. Henry doesn’t understand but apparently Charley does, as he shoots a look at Henry and backs away.

The trio start down the hallway and the Fisher swings its head backwards to look at him, motioning for him to follow. He does.

* * *

If Alice has a problem with him taking a detour, she doesn’t mention it. Maybe she’s as curious as he is.

The inside of the Butcher Gang’s “hideout”, if it could be called that, is little more than an empty office room with a hammock in one corner, a tool bench in another, and a few empty cans of soup scattered about. 

Henry sits down on the tool bench, watching as Charley pulls some thick ink from a nearby paint can to apply it to Edgar’s injured arm. The arm instantly heals itself, straightening with a cracking noise. The Striker flexes it experimentally, then runs back over to Henry. He scratches near the side of its head-mouth absentmindedly, nearing getting a finger taken off for the trouble.

The Fisher wanders back over to him. _“Here,”_ it rasps. In its hand are two cogs, which Henry takes.

“Thanks.” It swings its head in a way that vaguely looks like a nod, returning to the toolbox on the bench.

_They’ll all forget me the next time,_ he thinks to himself, _or I’ll forgot them._ He pushes the thought away. He has some new allies for this telling of the story, at least. It had to count for something.

He stays in the hideout for a while longer, enjoying the peace before returning to the angel’s to-do list.

* * *

On the next loop, Henry spots a Striker, watching him from the end of the hall.

It sets two cogs on the ground and vanishes.


	23. A Happy Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry meets Joey's niece.

“Who are you?”

Henry nearly jumps out of his skin at the unexpected voice. Turning, he sees a girl no older than 10 standing in the doorway, wearing a baggy t-shirt and jeans. Her hair is sticking up in strange directions, like she hadn’t bothered to comb it.

“Where did you come from?” he asks, too dumbfounded to actually respond to the question.

“I was sleeping on the couch,” she responds, squinting her eyes at him. “You look funny. Why are you all brown?”

Henry tries not to be offended by that. “I’m not really sure myself,” he admits. The girl frowns, rubbing at her eyes. _She must wear glasses,_ he realizes, taking a few steps further back into the room. Best to distract her before she got close enough to notice the sketch lines.

“Are you Joey’s… kid?” he asks. _Joey isn’t married, is he?_

The girl shakes her head. “Joey’s my uncle. Do you know him?”

“He was my friend. We used to work together a long time ago.” He pauses. “I never answered your question earlier. My name is Henry.”

“Mary,” she introduces herself. “Are you visiting Uncle Joey too?”

“He invited me over.” It’s not technically a lie. “Listen, Mary, do you like stories?”

She nods, rocking back and forth. “I like stories with animals.”

“Well, I have a friend named Boris. He’s a dog. Both of us come from a story, but it’s not a happy story. Stories without happy endings aren’t any fun, are they?” The girl shakes her head.

Henry can hear someone moving around downstairs. “I need you to tell your mom about me, okay? Tell her you saw Henry Stein at Joey’s house, and he told you to get help. But you can’t tell Joey anything about it. Okay?”

“Can I pet your dog if I do?”

Henry smiles. He can hear the noise of Joey’s wheelchair rolling across the floor outside. “Sure you can. But you have to pinky promise.”

“’Kay. I promise.”

Joey wheels himself in. He looks from Henry to Mary and back again, trying to gauge what was happening before he entered. “What a surprise! Mary, this is my friend, Henry.”

“He told me already!” she chirps. Henry can tell she’s chomping at the bit to talk about him, but she keeps her end of the bargain.

“Well, I’m glad to hear you had fun, but Henry’s got to go now. Isn’t that right, Henry?” He’s phrasing it as a question, but his eyes make it clear it’s not an option.

“Yeah.” Henry smiles at Mary. “You take care now, okay? Don’t get into trouble.” _And don’t forget our promise._

“Bye!” she calls as Joey leads him out of the room.

She doesn’t see Henry again after that.

* * *

“Joey, tell me another story, pleeease?”

He laughs. “Okay, okay. What kind of story?”

She thinks about it long and hard.

“A story with a happy ending,” she decides.


	24. A Creation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertrum fuses with the ride.

_COME UP AND SEE ME_

The inky mass stops writing, resting against the staircase. Voices swim in and out of its mind, screaming, crying. It starts to melt away, ink spreading across the floor and over the edge of the stairs.

_No._

He was the great Bertrum Piedmont - he was not simply going to lie down and disappear into the ink like all of the others. The mass rises from the floor and slowly pulls itself back together. The voices quiet, for now.

He continues forward, dragging himself along the ground. A few Lost Ones cluster anxiously in groups, watching him uneasily. He was almost three times the size of them, and he could easily kill them if it came to that. They seem to be aware of this, as they back away when he looks in their direction, merging seamlessly into the cracks in the walls. Bertrum briefly wonders if any of them were his old employees.

The workspace spreads out in front of him as the Bendy Land sign lights up. Everything was half-finished, frozen in time, an eerie tribute to the park that almost was. A wave of bitterness and regret washes over him, and with it a new chorus of voices. He takes a moment to recompose himself.

There was something here. Something calling to him from inside the warehouse, drawing him to it like a moth to light. Bertrum follows, and within minutes the Attraction Storage area looms out from the darkness in front of him.

A Striker snarls at him as he enters, pulling its mechanical arm tight in preparation for an attack. He lashes out, slamming the spider into the nearby wall with a sickening crunching noise. It twitches a few times, then goes still. Disgusting creatures, getting their tainted ink all over his creations. He continues, stopping to admire the ride as he enters the area.

It takes up a good amount of the space in the room, towering over everything else on the level. The Whipper-Will-O. he had called it, the first ride of its kind to ever be built. The light from the ceiling basks the ride in warmth, showcasing the delicate designs painted onto the wooden panels adorning it. The doors on the ride’s main body were slightly ajar, revealing only darkness where the mechanics should have been. The engine had never been finished.

Bertrum goes to place his hand against the ride, then stops, not wanting to get ink stains on it. A new sense of bitterness comes over him as he stares up at the spot where the engine should have been. The ride was going to be just one in an entire park full of attractions, with the designs getting even more spectacular. But-

He vividly remembers the feeling of Joey’s hands around his neck. He wasn’t  _needed_  any more, the man had told him one day. The studio was bankrupt; the park would not be built. Joey had called him into his office later that day, and since then everything had been an ever-increasing series of horrors.

A new wave of screaming starts and he finds himself leaning against the ride for support, struggling to keep his mind together. He focuses on the ride towering above him, trying to use it as an anchor for his thoughts.

It was  _his_  creation. Joey may have tried to get rid of him, but he was still here, still around to lay claim to it. Mr. Drew had always claimed that the creator owned the creation, but that wasn’t correct. He had poured his heart and soul into this park, into this ride, put his blood and sweat into it. It was as much a part of him as he was of it-

The voices grow louder and his mind finally breaks apart, disappearing into the the well of voices. His screams mix in with everyone else’s as he feels his body fall apart, the ink sliding between the tiny gaps and crevices in the ride’s infrastructure.

The voices quiet, and he’s alone again.

It was the ride. That same connection that had drawn him here was pulling him away from the others, giving him a chance to separate his mind from theirs. Bertrum panics, wreathing around in the claustrophobically tiny space, feeling himself spread out between gears, around wires, into holes in the metal. He struggles to move. The middle of the ride was empty, lacking an engine. If he could just get through the rest of the machine to that spot-

He can feel himself fusing with the metal, forming flesh and tendons with the machinery. The sensation is overpoweringly painful, he can’t move, he can’t scream, the empty space was in front of him-

And suddenly, it’s over. 

Bertrum drifts in and out of consciousness, not attempting to move. The initial pain had decreased to a dull, searing ache that didn’t seem to be in the right places for his body, as if he had been torn apart and put back together incorrectly. He curses Joey’s name during his hazy moments of awareness.

He realizes when he fully wakes up that it’s pitch black, and for a second he wonders if he’s gone blind. He attempts to move his arms and realizes with a stab of panic that he can’t move at all.

_Focus,_  he reminds himself.  _You are the great Bertrum Piedmont. You do not panic._

He starts to mentally feel his way around his new body, trying to identify what state he was in. Underneath of the constant pain he could feel the insides of the ride, all of the bits of metal and machinery that he had crafted himself, with attention payed to every little detail. That was right. This was his ride. He had no reason to be afraid.

The pain is spread out around him in four different areas, with most of it being directly below him. There’s a bit of space in front of his - head, maybe? He’s fairly certain he still has a mouth, so he must still have a head. The area he left for the engine, he realizes. He was inside of that area, with the arms of the machine surrounding him. Which meant-

He focuses on the section of the ride that contains the mechanics used to control the door and carefully moves them, the same way he would have flexed his hand or raised his arm back when he was alive. He’s quickly blinded with a sudden burst of light as the doors open in front of him.

The attraction storage room is spread out in front of him, as if he was looking at it from a dizzyingly high vantage point. The arms of the rides are in a different position than they had been when he had come in, with several carts showing large dents. He wonders briefly if he had somehow moved them earlier without realizing it.

More pressingly, there was ink. It was gushing from between the joints of the arms, spilling onto the ground below and staining the floor black, as if the ride itself were bleeding. No-  _he_ was the ride. _He_  was bleeding.

Bertrum tries to close his eyes, but the nerves there seem shot, unresponsive. Of course. He had died months ago - he was little more than a rotting corpse, flesh fused with the ride he had built.

If it had been a few months earlier, the sheer realization alone probably would have driven him mad, but after all he had been through he can only muster a dull sense of horror, which quickly diffuses into pure hatred. Joey had killed him and left him alone to rot. Joey had done this-

No. Joey had taken everything away from him, and he fully intended to repay him in kind. But this was not something Joey had intended - it was  _his_  park. He had wanted him to disappear into the ink like the others, but Bertrum hadn’t, and now he never would. Mr. Drew could not take that away from him. The thought brings a bitter stab of pride.

Bertrum focuses on the arm in front of him, gently contracting the muscles there. He can feel the attempt at movement, but the metal doesn’t move.  _Think._  The ride couldn’t move itself through pure electricity. It was steam powered, using the pressure from the air pulled in to give the ride enough force to move. So if he used the air pump…

He pulls it open and contracts it again with a satisfying hissing noise, attempting once again to move the arm as he does so. This time, it raises off the ground a few feet and stays there. He would have to practice, get used to controlling all the moving parts of this new form, but he doubts that would be an issue. He had all the time he needed down here.

Bertrum attempts to speak, but no sound comes out. He wasn’t sure he still had vocal cords - he wasn’t even sure he still had a throat. If he focused, he could feel the mental supports for the engine stabbing through his neck, straight into his head. He instead focuses on the speaker attached to the ride, letting ink flow up through the wiring. It turns on with a satisfying dull, staticky sound. He allows his voice to travel not through his throat, but through the speaker, and makes his first announcement.

_I’m still here._


End file.
